


A Bundle in the Snow

by whowillbestrongandstandwithme



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Canon Era, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, SO MUCH FLUFF, Some hurt/comfort, basically just an excuse to write jehan as a baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 15:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18472027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whowillbestrongandstandwithme/pseuds/whowillbestrongandstandwithme
Summary: It's a chilly night in Paris when Combeferre discovers a child, apparently abandoned, in the street. The Amis decide to take care of the child and help him get home. Grantaire especially becomes close to him, finding a peace he hasn't known in years. But there is more to this child's story than there seems, and soon, the Amis are faced with difficult decisions. Grantaire struggles with his inner demons, and in the end, he must choose between earning Enjolras' trust- or protecting a child.





	1. A Bundle in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I'm not the best at choosing chapter names or book titles...or writing summaries...or writing at all...  
> I first wrote this two ish years ago and forgot about it. I don't remember where exactly I got the idea, but it's honestly just an excuse to write Jehan as a baby, and protective R, and also to explore some angst in Enj's past. I've been reworking this fic but this chapter still seems a little clumsy?? It's a bit Victor Hugo-ish kind of at the beginning, except not as eloquent. More on the random, clunky side.  
> Anywho thanks for choosing to read this! enjoy :)

The chill in the midst of December rivaled many winters Paris had seen. The cold was accompanied by a foot of snow. It painted a lovely scene over the city, all covered in a blanket of pure white. Silence hung in the streets, unusual for passageways typically filled with life, teeming with the city’s occupants.

Inside the Musain that brisk night, the coziness was quite contrary to the atmosphere outside. A comfortable fire roared in the fireplace downstairs, heating the entire building. Cheerful shouts came from the group of friends upstairs as they enjoyed the warmth of each other’s company and of the fire.

These friends had nothing particularly special about them. Merely a collection of boys, students, and as diverse as one can find.

They were as follows; Enjolras, the fiery leader, an inspiration to them all. Combeferre, the guide, always quick to offer advice. Courfeyrac, the center, a joke constantly on the tip of his tongue and a smile lingering on his lips. Joly, the unofficial doctor, ready to heal any hurts the wild friends may acquire (which were many). Bossuet, the doctor’s companion, his cheer and his laugh infectious. Feuilly, the fan maker, strong in every way and always willing to help. Bahorel, the protector, just as swift with his temper as with a firm embrace.

Last, but perhaps not least; Grantaire. A cynic, optimist in the guise of a pessimist, and overall, a man with many problems but who had finally found peace in his acceptance to the group.

They called themselves Les Amis de l’ABC, a tightly knit circle of unlikely companions. Their bond held stronger than any group before. They would commonly go as far as to say it was all perfect.

Alas, this was not the case. They still lacked something.

None of them had yet spoken this out loud. Nevertheless, every member was aware of it. They missed some important factor that no group of friends should be without; the question was, what could it be? Surely they had all the qualities of a grand friendship?

While this and the revolution were common topics among the boys, they did not discuss either that night. In fact, hardly any serious talk took place at all. Enjolras scribbled frantically on a piece of parchment, his brow drawn in a line and blond curls hanging in front of his eyes. Combeferre sat beside him, reading contentedly, his glasses perched low on his nose. Bahorel had coaxed Grantaire out of his usual back corner and they played their fourth game of dominoes, with the others serving as spectators.

The game was just ending when Combeferre finally set aside his book, adjusting his glasses. A raucous uproar rose from the others, aside from Bahorel, who had adopted a smug grin. Combeferre guessed he had won- again.

“That was hardly a fair move!” Grantaire argued, scowling despite the light of laughter in his eyes.

Bahorel laughed. “Aha, but it was!”

He demonstrated his move again, and Grantaire apparently agreed with it, accepting his defeat with a heavy sigh.

“Fine, fine. Well done, my friend, you have once more succeeded in conquering me!”

The two players shook hands, despite there being no need to establish peace between them. They were too close to be injured by an outcome of a simple game. The spectators moved closer to better look at the layout of the game while Courfeyrac clamored for attention, yelling questions on how to play and such, his face alight with excitement.

Combeferre rolled his eyes at these proceedings, but he couldn’t help a fond smile. Despite how wild and noisy his friends could be, he loved them just the same, even when they were rambunctious enough to disturb his reading.

He stood. Enjolras tensed and glanced up at him, his pen ceasing its movement instantly. The two had been like brothers for as long as they could remember and knew each other better than they knew themselves. The guide could sense the concern radiating off Enjolras even before he noticed it in the depths of his eyes.

Combeferre even saw the question forming on Enjolras’ lips before it was spoken. “I’m only stepping outside for a moment.”

This did little to calm the leader. He frowned deeply. “Are you getting a headache?”

“No, not yet, but I wish to prevent one,” Combeferre replied, “Our dear friends must calm down some before I am willing to join you again. The noise may prove a challenge to my rebellious head.”

Enjolras stood as well, taking on an authoritative countenance. “I can surely reprimand them-”

Combeferre rushed to disapprove. “Enjolras, be at peace! I don’t wish to spoil their fun. Don’t make them settle down on my account.”

“Ah...I see. Alright then.” The leader fidgeted a bit where he stood. “You wish to be alone outside?”

“Yes, and I’ll only be a few minutes. I need just long enough to stave off a headache, that is all.”

“If you’re sure…”

Combeferre nodded. He leaned over, grasped Enjolras’ wrist, and gently squeezed it. The action calmed Enjolras and he returned to his seat, lifting his pen as the guide slipped down the stairs.

The noise of his friends faded to a pleasurable buzz when Combeferre stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the rough wood and gazed at the clear sky, smiling at the twinkling stars and the glow of the moon, laughing to himself as his friends cheered together over something. Perhaps it had been an offer of cocoa from one of the waitresses. The boys could never resist it.

Quickly, the ruckus from upstairs died down to a cheerful murmur. Combeferre breathed the cool air deeply, keeping his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Several minutes passed before he stood up straight. The night had grown much chillier while he had been standing there, and a cup of cocoa enticed him.

As he turned to go inside, he caught sight of a tiny bundle in the mound of snow under the window, candlelight illuminating it just well enough to see. Combeferre’s brow creased with curiosity and possibly a small amount of concern. As he stepped closer, he reasoned that it could simply be a bag that some careless person had left behind, but he wanted to be sure.

He knelt beside it, his knees soaking with snow. He noticed a little hand poking out amid the cloth, curled in a fist and clutching a damaged flower. Wisps of reddish hair peeped from under the cloth as well.

Combeferre paled as he realized the bundle of cloth held a child.

Unwilling to irritate any hurts the child might have, Combeferre took extreme caution in lifting the little one out of the snow. He brushed some snow out of his hair as he stood.

He could see the child properly now; he had fair skin that was frozen to the touch, with a splatter of freckles across his tiny nose and cheekbones. He was dressed in rather expensive clothing, although he was missing the coat and boots he surely must have had. His tiny feet were covered only by socks and his shirt likely did little to warm him.

Combeferre cradled the boy against his chest, his heart flooding with worry over the still figure. He prayed for the child as he entered the Musain.

He first peered up the stairs and called loudly for Joly, then he went to the fireplace and sat as close to the flames as he dared. He settled the child in his lap and carefully took off his own coat, bundling the little boy in it.

Joly appeared at his side a moment later, confusion and concern etched on his face. “My dear Combeferre, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed, then he saw the child and gasped. “Oh, no…”

“I found him by the door, lying there in the snow,” Combeferre told him, “He was alone, and freezing.”

Joly took a deep breath and sat down beside them. “Then we’ll certainly help him.” The medical student cast Combeferre a reassuring yet strained smile.

The guide nodded and returned the smile.

Joly carefully felt the child’s clothes and frowned. “No, that won’t do… His clothes are soaked from the snow. We need to take them off.” The doctor stood. “He has hypothermia. I’ll find some blankets.”

Combeferre agreed. Joly disappeared down a hallway.

In just a few minutes, the child’s shirt, pants, and socks had been removed and traded for two thick blankets. Only his face showed. He had curled in a tight ball beneath the blankets, where he shivered violently. Combeferre supposed it was better than the utter stillness he had previously displayed.

During this time as well, the rest of the friends had come down to see what was going on. They exclaimed and marveled over the child, peering curiously at the tiny fingers that occasionally became visible from under the blankets.

At last the violent quivers running through the boy’s body slowed and his eyes wearily blinked open. Light, soft gray appeared under his long lashes. He scanned the friends with a dazed expression, a bit of fear creeping onto his thin face.

Combeferre cradled the little boy while Joly pushed back the others, who had come forward in their anticipation.

“He needs space, now, move back!” Joly told them sternly.

The little boy let out a soft whimper and tears appeared in his eyes. He burrowed completely under the blankets and sneezed, still clutching his flower.

Joly knelt beside them. “Hush, little one, it’s alright. We’re only trying to help.”

The child hesitantly pulled the blankets aside and gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

The medical student smiled sadly and brushed the tiny tears away with his thumb. He pulled a carefully folded handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the child’s nose, pink from the lingering chill. “It’s alright,” Joly repeated, “There’s no need to be afraid. I’m Joly.”

The child’s expression turned to fascination. “Jolllly,” he muttered uncertainly.

Joly nodded, his smile widening. “Yes, that’s right!”

The child seemed calmed as Joly pointed out each of his friends and told him their names. He offered a faint smile before he retreated under the blankets once again.

“Aww, you poor dear!” Joly cooed.

Combeferre smiled faintly and held the boy close. He was irresistibly adorable.

Courfeyrac dared to venture close. He plopped down on the floor beside them, ignoring Joly’s sigh of disapproval and Combeferre’s stern glare. He peered into the blankets and declared, “Why, you haven’t told us your name!”

The child hesitated, then replied simply, “Jehan.”

Courfeyrac was perfectly satisfied with this answer, but more questions appeared in Combeferre’s mind. All they had was a first name; how could they find the boy’s home? His family?

“How old are you?” Courfeyrac continued brightly, “I’m twenty!”

Jehan’s eyes widened in awe. He slowly held up two tiny fingers, glancing at them in slight contempt, as though he thought two was rather pathetic compared to twenty.

Nevertheless, Courfeyrac gasped in exaggerated surprise. He clapped his hand to his breast. “Two?! Good heavens, you are quite grown, aren't you?!”

Jehan giggled and some life at last entered his eyes.

Combeferre intervened before Courfeyrac became too rambunctious and startled the child. “Jehan, why were you out there all alone?”

Jehan’s face fell and he shrugged in response.

The guide frowned. “I mean that it is very cold out and I wonder why you were outside alone, and not adequately dressed.”

Jehan blinked at him, not entirely understanding.

Anxiety rose in Combeferre’s chest. He glanced helplessly at Joly.

It was not Joly but Grantaire, who moved closer. He joined them on the floor, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s alright! I speak Combeferre!”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, but he was relieved. He really did not know how to speak to toddlers. He knew any one of his friends could be better than him in this situation.

Grantaire held his hand out to Jehan. “It is rather scary outside alone, isn’t it?”

The child gazed uncertainly at his hand, but still replied with a nod.

“Why did you go outside, then?” Grantaire asked, keeping his hand where it hovered.

“I runned away,” Jehan whispered.

The friends exchanged concerned glances.

“Oh no!” Grantaire continued with a frown, “Why did you do that?”

Jehan fidgeted. “Scared.”

“Of what?”

The child did not reply.

Grantaire moved his hand to stroke the reddish wisps of hair off Jehan’s forehead, studying him sadly. Now that the child shivered and hid less, the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks could be more easily seen.

Suddenly, Jehan’s entire body tensed. He quickly ducked under the blankets, avoiding his touch.

Grantaire froze. “Jehan? What’s wrong?”

He gave no reply.

Grantaire carefully pulled aside the blankets just well enough to see the top of the child’s head. He hesitated, afraid to startle Jehan, then he cautiously reached down and ran his fingers over his hair. Jehan stiffened at the touch and peered out at him, some curiosity and wonder blending with the fear.

“Don’t be frightened, little one,” Grantaire muttered, continuing the gentle motion.

Jehan’s muscles slowly relaxed. He reached his tiny hand out and grasped Grantaire’s calloused finger, pulling his hand into his line of sight. He gazed in wonder, attempting to figure out how the comforting touch had come from such a rough hand. Grantaire too marveled at Jehan’s hand, fascinated by the delicateness. His grip was firm, gentle; his hand was warm and soft.

Jehan decided on something then. The flower he had kept pressed against his chest was a little more damaged than before now, but he carefully fixed the petals, setting it in his lap so he could keep a hold on Grantaire. Once he was finished, he leaned up and tucked the flower behind Grantaire’s ear.

He grinned broadly. “Thank you very much!”

A deep blush turned Jehan’s cheeks pink and he lowered his gaze shyly.

Bahorel smirked playfully and nudged Grantaire with his foot. “Quite the lovely addition to your outfit, I must say.”

Grantaire faked flattery. “Ah, you are too kind!”

“I can already hear the ladies swooning,” Combeferre added dryly.

Courfeyrac gasped loudly. “My own looks have new competition!”

“Oh dear, Courfeyrac, you’ll certainly never win against this beauty!” Feuilly joked.

Courfeyrac let out a dramatic moan, which sent the others into a bout of laughter. He quickly joined, and the room filled with the sound of their cheer.

Jehan watched them, his eyes alight. Combeferre was the first to stop laughing, although his grin remained, and he glanced at Jehan in his lap. The child turned to him and waved.

“You truly are the sweetest thing…,” the guide muttered, hugging the little one.

Jehan seemed comforted by his embrace and leaned his head against his chest.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac spoke suddenly, “Our cocoa is upstairs getting cold!”

Most of the others gasped and scrambled upstairs, leaving Combeferre, Enjolras, and Joly with the child still. Grantaire lingered at the bottom of the stairs uncertainly.

Enjolras had remained relatively quiet and distant from his friends, but now, he came forward. He slowly sat down beside Combeferre and Joly, his gaze thoughtful. He studied Jehan closely, then he asked, “Jehan, where did you run away from?”

The child instantly retreated from him, clutching the edge of the blanket.

Enjolras suppressed a sigh. “We cannot help you return home if you remain silent.”

Jehan paled. “No.”

“What?”

“No!”

Enjolras’ brow wrinkled with confusion and a twinge of annoyance. Admittedly, he had never been good with children. “Surely you wish to return home?”

Jehan shook his head vigorously, his lower lip quivering.

Combeferre offered a question of his own. “Is that where you ran away from?”

The child hesitantly nodded.

Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged glances. Joly anxiously bit the inside of his lip.

The four were quiet for some time, the only noises being the occasional pop from the fire or a teeny sneeze from Jehan. Eventually, Joly pronounced Jehan’s clothes sufficiently dried and he helped the child into them, earning a grateful smile accompanied by a little sniffle. Joly sympathetically patted his cheek and handed him the handkerchief.

“You go on and keep that, little one,” Joly insisted.

“ _Grazie_ ,” he mumbled, taking it.

Joly raised his eyebrow. “You’re welcome… I think.”

Jehan didn’t notice the medical student’s confusion. He tucked the handkerchief in his pocket and stood in front of Joly’s kneeling figure.

Combeferre picked up a piece of paisley cloth on the floor, frowning. He wondered if it had fallen out of Jehan’s pocket, but as he studied it, he recognized it to be a cravat that was very much for an adult. It couldn’t be Jehan’s, yet he knew it was not any of his friend’s. “Is this yours too?” he asked the child.

Jehan turned, and when he saw it, he gasped and nodded.

“This is awfully large for you,” the guide said.

Jehan shrugged slightly and took it, almost reverently.

Combeferre sighed and smiled. “Do you want to wear it?”

The child’s eyes sparkled.

Combeferre took that for a positive answer and carefully put the paisley cravat on him, smiling at how much tinier Jehan seemed with it on. “There! Now you certainly are a little gentleman!”

Jehan giggled shyly and ducked his head.

Grantaire at last made a decision and strode back to them, smiling again. “Jehan, do you like cocoa?”

Jehan looked up and gasped. “Ooh…”

“My thoughts exactly! Would you like some?” He glanced at Joly. “That is, if it’s alright with the good doctor.”

Joly laughed a little. “Actually, that would be quite perfect. Hot drinks are just as excellent as blankets and fire for warming someone up. As are hugs.”

Grantaire grinned. “Well, in that case…”

Jehan shyly reached up and grasped Grantaire’s finger. He had to bend down so the toddler could reach him. The sparkle in the man’s eyes reassured Jehan.

Soon, Jehan was nestled in Grantaire’s lap with a mug of cocoa, cooled slightly to ensure he wouldn’t burn his tongue. The others joined them at the same table, apart from Combeferre and Enjolras, who stayed downstairs to speak privately. The boys chatted excitedly with each other while Grantaire and Jehan watched and listened.

About an hour passed in this way. At the end of this time, Grantaire noticed Jehan’s silence. He no longer even sneezed.

He looked down at the tiny figure in his lap and smiled. Jehan was curled in a loose ball, his head resting on Grantaire’s chest and his hands clutching the green fabric of Grantaire’s vest as if his life depended on it. Peace had settled on his fair face and his bright eyes were closed. The child had fallen asleep.

Grantaire wrapped both arms around him instead of simply having a steadying hand on his back. He cradled him, his heart swelling with a strange sense of protectiveness. He was too focused on little Jehan to see that the others had paused their conversations to smile at him and the child.

“Awww, R…,” Feuilly whispered.

Grantaire frowned. “What?”

“You're so very kind to him!” Feuilly continued, “Look at yourself! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you be so gentle with anything!”

Grantaire considered this and shrugged. “I suppose…”

“You realize that you have not touched your drink at all since you came up here with Jehan?” Bahorel wondered.

His jaw nearly dropped. “Oh. I...had not realized that, no.”

Bahorel proceeded to elaborate on that, but he only got a few words in when Jehan whimpered sleepily and sniffled. Grantaire’s brow crinkled with concern. He stroked the toddler’s hair comfortingly, hugging him a bit tighter. He whispered softly to him, shushing him and reassuring him. Jehan’s grip on his vest tightened and he calmed with a light snore.

All at once, the others began to speak to each other in hushed tones, amazed at the scene.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and smirked at them. “Welcome to this crazy family, Jehan,” he mumbled to the sleeping child.

He could have sworn he saw Jehan smile.


	2. A Conversation and a Decision

“Where do you suppose he came from?” Combeferre wondered, breaking the silence between him and Enjolras.

The leader shifted his position on the floor, crossing his legs, and sighed. “Obviously he has a bourgeois family.”

Combeferre frowned. “Well, he certainly dresses nicely.”

“Yes, and that means his family has money, which means we should search among the bourgeois for them.”

“Perhaps.”

The two fell silent once more. Questions filled their heads about Jehan. He was practically a baby, and for him to have the courage to run away...it must have been some truly terrible thing he escaped.

“What could he have run away from?” Combeferre muttered absently.

Enjolras thought for a moment. “Whatever it was, it affected him deeply.”

Combeferre nodded. “Indeed… What could he possibly be keeping from us?”

“Perhaps we will discover one day.”

“Perhaps.” Combeferre hesitated before continuing, “Do you suppose I took the right course in my actions?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrow. “What, in rescuing the child? Of course you did. Don’t doubt yourself.”

The guide let out a breath of relief.

Enjolras placed his hand on Combeferre’s back reassuringly. “You did well. It’s a noble act, saving another person like that. It is easy to ignore responsibility and leave it to others to handle, or let the world take its course of action without your interference, but any small act of kindness and respect can change a life- or save one. Stop worrying.”

Combeferre’s lips quirked in the beginnings of a smile. “I am not worrying.”

The leader snorted knowingly. “You are worrying, and there’s no need to.”

“But perhaps we shall never be able to give Jehan everything he needs? I mean that we are only a group of students. We will not be able to give him very much.”

“We should choose a particular person to be his primary guardian until we can find out more about him,” Enjolras replied, hoping to calm his brother.

“Alright. And by we, you mean yourself,” Combeferre said with a smile.

Enjolras nodded. “Indeed. I will choose someone.”

“Please have the sense not to choose Courfeyrac,” the guide joked.

“Ah, you have guessed my intentions!” Enjolras added to the jest.

They shared a laugh over this, then they began going through their other friends to see who would be the best fit. It proved more difficult than they suspected. Enjolras had trouble deciding right from the start.

“Not either of us,” Enjolras muttered, running his finger absently along the scratches on the floor, “I don’t believe we are right for him. And we are both currently too busy, in my opinion.”

Combeferre agreed with some reluctance. It would be fun to watch over Jehan, but his studies were building and he needed to devote most of his attention to that. Toddlers required much care. He knew he did not have the time, nor did Enjolras.

“Not Courfeyrac for reasons implied,” the leader continued, thinking of Courfeyrac’s streak of irresponsibility (he trusted Courfeyrac with his life, but this was another matter entirely), “and not Bahorel either. He has several gamins who use his apartment as shelter already. He would be overwhelmed with another child, especially one who can do practically nothing for himself.”

Again, Combeferre agreed.

“Bossuet would not trust himself and I don’t care to make him uncomfortable, and Joly’s anxiety might be a greater problem with such a large responsibility. Also, his studies as well are rather large at the moment, therefore I believe it would be wise to let him focus on that. Feuilly cannot because of his work schedule. He would never be home to care for the child.”

“I agree once more.”

Enjolras frowned. “Is that everyone?”

Combeferre thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, there is still Grantaire.”

The leader tensed. “Oh. Yes. Grantaire.”

“Well, he does not currently have any other commitments,” Combeferre spoke hesitantly, quite aware of the strained friendship between Enjolras and Grantaire.

Enjolras scowled. “Are you mad?! Do you honestly believe that a drunken cynic- a boy with no job, no schooling, with reckless behavior- is the best person to care for a toddler?!”

Combeferre sighed. “He is the only choice, unless you wish to burden yourself or one of your other friends. You know that any of them would do anything you asked of them without complaint, and they all love Jehan so much already.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “Yes, I know. I am, however, unwilling to put too much strain on them.”

“And what of yourself?”

“You know that I do not understand how to care for a child, Combeferre.”

“True.”

Enjolras bit the inside of his lip. The last person he wanted for Jehan was Grantaire; he knew what sort of influence a person with the cynic’s habits could do to a child. Enjolras himself had a father with a similar downfall. He did not wish for Jehan to grow up like that- assuming they never found his family.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre interrupted his thoughts softly, “I know what you are thinking. Grantaire is not your father.”

“He has the same habits,” Enjolras countered.

“But he has a gentle heart. If you ever took the time to properly speak to Grantaire, you would know that.”

Enjolras hung his head. He thought for a minute before he spoke again. “Are you sure I should do this?”

Combeferre offered him a smile. “I am not telling you what to do. I am simply guiding you, as is my duty and my pleasure.”

Enjolras slowly nodded, considering his options. Perhaps Combeferre was right about Grantaire. He certainly had nothing else to do besides drinking and drawing. Maybe Enjolras could speak to him about his drinking. Maybe Grantaire would be willing to stop at last.

No, that pushed events too far. He would never stop, not even for a child’s sake.

“I do not believe I can decide right away,” Enjolras told Combeferre, “I’m going to consider this for a while. I want to be sure of my choice. If it comes to it, I shall watch over Jehan myself, at least for tonight.”

Combeferre nodded. “Alright. Fair enough.”

Enjolras stood, reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire, but there was a mug of cocoa and a speech to write awaiting him upstairs. He had plenty of time to decide. Combeferre stood as well, eager to return to his book. Together, they went upstairs.

The sight they beheld when they reached the next level astounded them.

There they all were, the friends, huddled together at the same little table. Empty mugs and plates were scattered across the top. They were talking animatedly about something, although their voices were low.

And there, right in Enjolras’ line of sight, sat Grantaire. In front of him on the table sat two untouched bottles of wine. In his lap, he cradled Jehan, curled against his chest and fast asleep. Grantaire held the child with more care than Enjolras had ever seen him use.

Enjolras stared, dumbfounded. He could not believe what he saw at all. Combeferre, however, gasped and let out a soft “awww” as he went to join their friends, his book apparently forgotten.

Grantaire raised his eyes from Jehan when Combeferre drew near. Immediately catching the grin on his face, he sighed and said, “Now, don’t you fuss over me as well! I am not all alcohol and cynicism!”

Combeferre laughed. “I can see that, my friend! I was quite unaware of your capabilities with a child, however.”

Grantaire shrugged slightly, careful not to disturb the slumbering figure in his arms. “I too was unaware of this. I have never had much experience with children. Jehan is somehow very different.”

“Well, the two of you look absolutely darling,” Combeferre admitted.

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

Enjolras, unfortunately, had to agree. With the flower tucked behind his ear, his soft grin, and the sparkle in his bloodshot eyes, Grantaire seemed an entirely different person. The leader could hardly wrap his mind around the strange sight.

Grantaire turned his gaze to Enjolras. He smirked. “Ah, and the mighty Apollo is at a loss for words at last!”

The friends laughed. Enjolras sighed.

“Indeed. You have rendered my tongue useless,” he said, stepping forward. “Tell me, Grantaire, do you intend to ever let go of Jehan?”

His face fell slightly. “If I must release him, then I shall.”

Enjolras studied him carefully. “Grantaire, I want you to care for him.”

Combeferre smiled. Grantaire looked shocked.

“Y-you...what? I apologize, but I believe my ears deceived me!” Grantaire spluttered incredulously.

“No, you heard correctly. I wish for you to care for Jehan. None of us have the time nor the skill to give him proper attention and care except you,” Enjolras continued firmly.

The cynic could not resist a wide grin. “Oh. Well, it is my turn to be at a loss for words! _Merci beaucoup_ , Apollo!”

Enjolras nodded, then fixed him with a stern glare. “Now, I believe you can handle this, but I need you to uphold the promise that you will properly tend to Jehan until we can find his family.”

Grantaire grew solemn. “Yes. Of course. I promise I will.”

“Excellent.”

Enjolras strode to his table and sat down, burying himself in his work again. Amazement at his own confidence in Grantaire filled him. Somehow he could not imagine anyone else tending to Jehan.

He glanced up at the other man after a few moments of work on his speech. A smile tugged relentlessly at the corners of his mouth as he watched him, already acting on his newfound duty. Jehan had woken himself with a harsh sneeze that still managed to sound like a kitten’s. Grantaire carefully cleaned his tiny nose, still pink from the cold. He rocked the little one back and forth, lulling him back to sleep.

Enjolras was never sure of it, but he had the wildest notion he heard Grantaire mumble to Jehan, “I love you, little one. Sleep well."


	3. Night Terrors

Grantaire jolted awake with a gasp. He looked around wearily, rubbing his eyes. He wondered what on earth had woken him. He sat in his room where he had fallen asleep a few hours before. Darkness cloaked the room, aside from the candle burning at his desk, where he was sitting. He had been drawing; he guessed he had fallen asleep there.

Eventually, he determined that nothing was amiss. He rested his elbows on the desk with a groan. He gazed out the window to his left at the cityscape, thinking wistfully of the sleeping residents and how he had been robbed of such blissful oblivion.

He heard a scream.

He jumped, muscles tensing. He gripped the edge of his desk, now fully awake and alert. His heart pounded as he listened intently for any other sounds. The scream had come from his own apartment.

There, another! A terrified shriek followed this time by several heart wrenching sobs. It sounded like a child.

Grantaire paled and cursed. He had forgotten about Jehan already.

He leapt to his feet, tripping on the chair in his haste. He collapsed to the floor with a grunt, the chair falling beside him with a _bang_. Several papers skittered off his desk. He stumbled up, careful of the papers, then he raced to the other room. He had placed Jehan on the couch in a bundle of blankets when he had arrived home from the Musain hours before. Now, the blankets rested on the couch, empty.

He scanned the dark room, wild with concern for the toddler. “Jehan?! Where are you?! Jehan, what happened?!”

Grantaire pinpointed the sobs to the farthest corner of the room, under the kitchen table. He hurried over and bent down. He peered into the darkness, barely able to make out the tiny, quivering figure in such a small amount of light.

The tears on Jehan’s hollow cheeks glistened in the slight stream of moonlight coming through the half parted curtains. His eyes were wide and filled with terror. His baby hands were clenched over his ears, blocking out some noise only he could hear.

Grantaire’s concern formed a dagger that stabbed into his chest, twisted, and remained there. “Jehan, what’s the matter?”

Jehan only sobbed in response, his thin chest heaving from the effort of each breath.

Grantaire bit the inside of his lip and thought for a moment. “Do you wish to come out and talk about it? I could get you a blanket, make us cocoa…”

His voice trailed off uncertainly. He realized his consolations were doing nothing for the poor toddler. He sat there quietly, his heart aching and every fiber of his entire being longing to help.

Several minutes passed before Jehan piped up with his tiny voice.

“Hurt?”

Grantaire looked up from his hands and frowned. “Pardon?”

Jehan gazed intently at him. “Hurt?” he repeated, pointing his delicate finger at him. He had taken his hands away from his ears.

“Me? No,” Grantaire replied, “Are you hurt?”

The child shook his head and sniffled. “Scared.”

“Me too.”

Jehan looked startled by that. He studied him intently, his brow furrowed.

Grantaire hesitated before he asked, “Could I come under there?”

Jehan considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly, folding his tiny hands around his knees. Grantaire let out a breath of relief. He crawled under the table.

The toddler did not relax at all but seemed to tense up more, ready to run away should any danger arise. Grantaire supposed it was the remnants of whatever night terror the poor child had experienced. He sought to comfort him, but when he reached to stroke the reddish wisps back from his face, Jehan gasped and scrambled back, staring in terror at the approaching hand.

Grantaire’s heart sank as Jehan burst into a fresh wave of tears, sobs and shivers making his thin frame convulse.

“Oh, no… I’m sorry, Jehan, I did not mean to frighten you,” he whispered remorsefully.

No reply came from Jehan. He had curled himself into a tight ball and remained there, frantically attempting to get air into his lungs.

Grantaire observed him for a moment, and the dagger of concern in his chest twisted again. Jehan pressed one hand against his chest, as if it hurt. Praying that he would not make things worse, Grantaire inched closer and carefully scooped Jehan up into his arms. He cradled the shaking toddler against his chest.

“It’s alright, Jehan,” he soothed, “I promise I won’t hurt you. If that is what you fear…”

Silver met emerald as the two looked at each other, one with a mixture of terror and awe, the other with concern.

“Do you remember my hands?” Grantaire continued, holding his hand out so Jehan could look at it.

Jehan’s little hand hesitantly wrapped around his finger and his sobs slowed. He seemed to recall the calloused skin, the charcoal stains under the pale and chipped fingernails, the prominent bones and veins.

“It’s alright if you don’t trust me yet, but I swear to you that I will protect you,” Grantaire told him softly, instinctively placing a gentle kiss on the delicate fingers clutching his own.

Jehan no longer gasped for each breath. His expression had softened. He did not shake and he barely cried. He took his other little hand away from his chest, then cautiously reached up and touched Grantaire’s cheek, tracing his cheekbone to his nose. He gently prodded at Grantaire’s sharp jaw, covered in short black hairs and thin scars. He stretched up and ran his hand through Grantaire’s thick, dark curls.

Grantaire didn’t understand what the tiny child was doing, but he allowed it nevertheless. He smiled at Jehan and was rewarded with a surprisingly strong hug. Grantaire clutched Jehan as if someone might try to snatch him away, keeping one hand on his back and the other on his head. Jehan, in turn, gripped the man’s loose and untucked shirt tightly with both hands.

As Grantaire began to rock him back and forth, he muttered, “I promise I’ll protect you. I promise. No one will hurt you as long as I’m here.”

Jehan snuggled against Grantaire’s chest.

Silence fell for a while after, peace flooding the room and penetrating to their hearts. The only problem that remained was that no matter how much Grantaire soothed him, Jehan remained wide awake and would not go back to sleep.

Finally, Grantaire sighed and asked, “Jehan, why do you not wish to sleep again?”

Jehan looked away, face tightening with embarrassment and anxiety. “Scared.”

“Still?”

“ _Si_...”

Grantaire frowned. “Was that a yes?”

Jehan blinked in confusion.

“Never mind…” Grantaire cradled the child, thinking. That was the second time Jehan had spoken in a different language.

“What are you scared of?” he asked, deciding to question the language use later.

A shudder ran through Jehan’s tiny body. He buried his face in the white fabric of Grantaire’s shirt, hiding from the surrounding shadows.

“You can tell me, Jehan,” Grantaire said, rubbing circles between Jehan’s shoulder blades with his thumb.

Jehan took a deep breath, as if preparing for an important speech, or readying himself for a daring move. “Papa,” he whispered simply.

Grantaire stiffened. “You are afraid of your father?”

Jehan nodded and his lower lip trembled.

“Is that the reason you ran away?”

Another nod.

“Does he hurt you?”

This nod came more hesitantly.

Grantaire’s heart ached with shock and horror. He cuddled Jehan and stared at the dirty floor. It all made sense now. It had all been so frighteningly obvious, he could not believe he hadn’t figured it out sooner.

Grantaire’s stomach churned. This poor child had run away from one of the worst situations in the world and he had not noticed nor tended to it.

“I am sorry, Jehan. I did not realize…” His voice trailed off lamely. What could he say to an abused toddler that was in any way comforting? Instead, he carefully crawled out from under the table, grabbing the candle on his way. He straightened and adjusted Jehan on his hip, then he snatched the fuzziest blanket he owned from off the couch and went to his bedroom.

He jumped into bed, ignoring the ominous creak from the old wooden boards. He set the candle down on the nightstand, carefully tucked the blanket around Jehan, and pulled his own blankets over himself, curling in a protective ball around the child. He flopped on the pillows and sighed.

“There now,” he mumbled, stroking Jehan’s hair, “You are completely safe. Blankets are magical and they will help protect you from anything.”

Jehan gasped and nuzzled into the blankets. He stayed pressed against Grantaire.

Grantaire let some quiet fall over them and contented himself with stroking Jehan’s soft hair. A multitude of questions whirled in his head, but he knew he had to save them for the morning. He did not wish to pelt Jehan with those at that time.

One question in particular he could not resist, though, a single doubt that clamored for attention in his brain.

“Jehan, do you trust me?”

He did not expect an answer. As slow as the toddler seemed to trust, he anticipated no response. He had reassured him earlier that not trusting him was perfectly fine, but the thought ate at him relentlessly.

Jehan’s tiny nose wrinkled in thought, like he was finding the right words, then he laid his hand over Grantaire’s heart. “You’re nice. I like you,” he said- clumsy but heartfelt.

Grantaire grinned. “I like you too.”

Jehan giggled. He nestled closer to Grantaire and closed his eyes, relaxing at last. Within moments, he fell sound asleep, breathing deeply and easily.

Grantaire watched him for a time, slowly quieting all his questions. He promised himself that they would be answered soon. He would speak with Enjolras. The leader always knew the answers to questions. Joly would be able to answer his doubts about Jehan’s health. Feuilly would know more about this other language Jehan spoke.

Everything would be alright.

He kissed Jehan’s forehead as his eyelids drooped, and before he knew it, he too fell fast asleep.


	4. Of Walks and Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to a longer chapter! This one has more headcanons in it, as well as a scene with some religious perspective. I wrote it in because I think it's adorable but it's not highly important to the story. Ignore headcanons as you see fit! I tend to be overdramatic with them anyway. Enjoy the chapter!

Morning arrived too quickly for Grantaire. He blinked in the sunlight streaming through his window. Blearily, he wished he had closed the curtains before falling asleep. He rubbed his eyes with a yawn, then he cast a glance at Jehan. The child remained curled in a tight bundle against his chest, fast asleep.

Grantaire carefully slipped out of the cozy blankets, settling the toddler against the pillows and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He changed into clean clothes, then he walked out of the room, considering breakfast. He normally didn’t have much for breakfast, or he simply skipped the meal, but he had Jehan with him this time. He supposed toddlers needed a proper breakfast, and he should set a good example.

He managed to find decent bread in his cabinets, but nothing else that would be suitable to eat due to age. Grantaire sighed and sliced the bread up. He promised himself he would take Jehan out for more food. There were other items to acquire as well, such as more clothes, like a coat, and some shoes for the child.

He arranged the bread on a semi-clean plate (he reminded himself to clean his entire apartment later) and rummaged for something to drink. Surely he still had some clear water somewhere.

Grantaire jumped when he heard a soft cry from his bedroom. Perhaps it was not a good idea to leave Jehan alone after all. He raced to his bedroom and found Jehan sitting up in the mass of blankets, tears welling in his wide eyes.

The toddler gasped and reached desperately for him. “R!” he called, although it didn’t sound much like what he intended due to his baby lisp.

Grantaire’s heart lightened at the improvement in trust. He smiled at the nickname he had just been given, but his mind weighed with guilt. He rushed to the bed, sat down, and tugged Jehan into his lap. “I’m sorry! I didn’t abandon you, don’t fret. I was only in the kitchen.”

Jehan relaxed and clung to him.

“Are you hungry, little one?” Grantaire asked.

Jehan nodded eagerly. Now that he was in Grantaire’s arms, he seemed much happier.

Grantaire carried him to the kitchen, keeping him wrapped in one of the blankets out of concern. His apartment tended to be chilly in the winter and he worried that Jehan would freeze.

The two ate breakfast in comfortable silence. Once they finished and Grantaire was positive Jehan had eaten his fill, they rose from the table, leaving the plate. Grantaire bundled Jehan up in one of his old coats and carried him against his chest, so he would not have to walk in the snow with only his little socks on. Then, they set out.

Grantaire first stopped at the cobbler’s shop and ordered Jehan new boots. The toddler was utterly thrilled and thanked both Grantaire and the cobbler profusely. Then they went and got a few extra outfits for Jehan. He insisted on getting things with flowers on them. Grantaire encouraged him and helped choose some items.

This took up the remainder of the morning- and nearly the remainder of Grantaire’s money. Before, spending so much money on alcohol seemed beneficial. Now, he cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. He would have to come up with an income from somewhere.

Grantaire took Jehan to a small cafe for lunch, using the last bit of money he had saved. He forced down the additional worry it caused him.

After the meal, he carried Jehan around the city, showing him some of his favorite spots to sit and draw. Jehan was enchanted by everything and often pointed out what he liked, speaking in an odd mix of French and his mysterious language. Grantaire noticed Jehan’s surprisingly extensive vocabulary in his second language.

While they walked, Grantaire remembered to ask Jehan why the child did not have a coat and shoes. The cynic was surprised and delighted to discover that, on his way down the street, Jehan had met a little girl huddled in an alley, smaller than him and wearing nothing but a tattered dress. Jehan had been concerned for her and quickly given her his coat and shoes. Grantaire congratulated Jehan on this act and smiled at the toddler’s blush.

As they were heading towards the Seine, a common place for Grantaire to set up because he liked to sit on the railing of the bridge, they passed the grand cathedral of Notre Dame. Grantaire had never been inside and never considered doing so; he was in no way against it being there, but nor was he for it. He simply acknowledged its existence and moved on with his life, and that feeling went toward Catholicism. He had no problems with it, as a few of his friends were Catholic, but he chose not to be a part of it.

Therefore he hardly cast the cathedral a glance as he strolled past. The giant bells tolled one o’clock, and people began to flood out. Noon Mass had just ended. Grantaire pushed on through the milling crowd, nodding and smiling politely to those who greeted him.

Jehan had been silent for a while. He shyly smiled at the people who waved to him. When the toddler set eyes on the cathedral, however, he gasped and squealed in delight. He grasped Grantaire’s sleeve and tugged on it, calling over and over, “R! R! R!”

Grantaire raised his eyebrow. “What is it?”

Jehan pointed to the doors of Notre Dame and grinned excitedly.

“You wish to go inside?” the cynic asked, his mouth going dry.

“ _Si_! _Si_!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide.

Grantaire had learned that this meant yes. He took a deep breath. “Maybe some other time, Jehan. Why don’t you ask Combeferre to take you? He would be quite pleased to do so.”

A pout appeared on his face.

Grantaire frowned sternly. “Jehan, stop that. We are not going inside.”

Jehan’s expression shifted and he nodded. He ducked his head submissively.

Guilt gnawed at the cynic’s heart. He looked up at the cathedral, biting the inside of his lip. Perhaps it would not be so bad to go inside for a few moments. Jehan’s face had lit up with such delight at the thought of entering. He did hate to disappoint him. _It’s just a building. What am I so upset about?_

“Alright,” he said finally, “but only for a minute.”

Jehan raised his head and gasped in surprise.

Grantaire smiled, a bit forcibly. “I honor your beliefs. Come on.”

Jehan clapped his hands then embraced Grantaire tightly, his thin arms lacing around his shoulders. Grantaire cradled the child, his smile coming more easily, and with another deep breath, he climbed the steps to the cathedral and entered.

The exterior impressed him already, but the interior took his breath away. The stained glass windows cast multicolored lights on the gleaming floor, and the candles shed a gentle glow on the rest of the building. The faint smell of incense still lingered in the air, adding to the peaceful ambience. Grantaire imagined he had stepped inside an entirely different universe.

Jehan pressed on Grantaire’s chest and squirmed, trying to pull out of his arms.

“Would you like to walk on your own now?” Grantaire whispered. He supposed the clean floor would be fine for Jehan’s tiny, sock covered feet.

The toddler nodded. Grantaire carefully set him down, making sure he was steady on his feet before letting go. Jehan immediately raced toward the altar, and Grantaire followed, easily keeping up and staying close to him, prepared to catch him lest he trip on the oversized coat.

Jehan turned once he reached the end of the aisle, pausing first to clumsily genuflect, and ran straight to a statue. Grantaire knew right away that it depicted Mary, the Blessed Mother.

Grantaire admitted to himself that the statue was gorgeous, albeit simple. He found a certain type of beauty in the gentle, sweet face and the delicate outstretched hands. Some sort of peace settled in his heart as he studied the statue, and suddenly, no troubles in the world mattered.

Jehan beamed and stepped close to the statue, peering up at Mary’s downturned face, his eyes sparkling with joy and innocence. He stretched his little arms up and stood on his toes, reaching excitedly for Mary’s hands.

“Mama!” he called cheerfully and softly.

Grantaire started and gazed in wonder at the toddler. Jehan meant she was his mother in spirit, that Grantaire understood; however, he wondered how a child so small could understand something so profound as well.

A few other people were still present in the cathedral with them. One young couple passed Grantaire and Jehan as the toddler giggled in delight and waved to the beautiful statue. They paused to smile at Jehan’s innocence.

“Surely France needs such trust in Our Lady as that,” Grantaire heard the man say.

The woman agreed, then, noticing how Grantaire watched over Jehan, asked him, “Oh, is that your son, monsieur?”

Grantaire reddened. “Ah, no, he’s...um, I am merely his temporary guardian. I’m seeking his home. My friend found him in the snow last night.”

The woman sighed in empathy and patted his hand. “You are good to watch over him. May God bless you, and may Our Blessed Mother protect you both.”

Grantaire awkwardly nodded in thanks, and the couple walked away. Strangely, he felt as if a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders. He returned his gaze to the statue and could not resist a smile.

Jehan sat down at the feet of the statue and folded his hands in his lap, his gray eyes pensive. Grantaire stepped forward and sat beside him.

There the two stayed for quite a while in peace, neither disturbing the other. At some point, Jehan grabbed Grantaire’s finger and held it tight, a soft sparkle lighting up the thoughtfulness in his eyes.

Grantaire was the first to disrupt the moment, but only because Jehan’s eyelids were drooping and he had nestled against his arm. Grantaire carefully scooped him up and stood. With a polite nod of farewell to the statue of Mary, he left the cathedral, grinning and cradling Jehan to his chest.

 

Grantaire pushed open the door to the Musain with his shoulder, unable to use his hands because of his precious bundle, Jehan. He was late. The meeting at the Musain began half an hour previous. He carried Jehan up the stairs, shivering from the draft that followed them. He pressed Jehan close to his chest as he too shook from the cold, despite being dressed in one of his new outfits.

Grantaire hoped to slip quietly into his back corner unnoticed, but Enjolras caught sight of him and waved him over. He forced back a groan; he had been feeling ill since he had woken up and it had not abated. He didn’t wish to have Enjolras lecture him. Not now.

He strode over anyway, taking a deep breath. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

Enjolras sighed. His lip curled with disdain, but a shadow of concern still fell over his face. “That is not worth discussing, as there are more pressing matters.”

Grantaire nodded. “What are these pressing matters?”

Enjolras began to speak, but the child squirmed in Grantaire’s arms suddenly, distracting him. Jehan smiled and called cheerfully, “Jolllly!”

Joly sat nearby. He looked up when he heard his name. A bright grin lit up his face. He stood, grabbing his cane from where it was leaning against the table. He stepped close to Grantaire and carefully took Jehan from him, nestling him on his hip.

“Hello, dear little flower!” he said cheerfully, causing the others to laugh or merely smile at the new nickname.

Jehan giggled and shyly hugged Joly. With a glance at Joly’s cane, he said softly, “Hurt?”

Joly shook his head. “Ah, no. I have a knee that likes to be naughty.”

“Ohhh.” Jehan patted Joly’s cheek comfortingly.

A tap on his shoulder tugged Grantaire away from the scene. His gaze lingered on the toddler, ensuring his contentedness without him, then he turned. Combeferre offered him a chair. Enjolras stared at the tabletop, arms folded across his chest, no doubt preparing his words in his head.

Grantaire nodded to Combeferre gratefully and sat down, suppressing another groan as his head spun a bit. He covered up his sickness with his trademark smirk.

“So, what brings you to allow me to sit at this lofty height?” he joked.

Enjolras flashed a glare at him. “You are tending to Jehan, therefore we must include you in these matters concerning him.”

Grantaire nodded. “Ah, yes, of course.”

“Have you managed to discover anything?” Combeferre asked.

A whirlwind of thoughts and memories came to the front of his mind. His expression grew quite serious. “A number of things, yes.”

“Good!” Combeferre congratulated.

Enjolras leaned forward slightly. “What have you learned?”

“Well...there are really just a collection of guesses,” he admitted, “One of them is that language he keeps speaking in.”

“He is still using it? Does he gravitate towards that?” Combeferre wondered, his eyes lighting up with curiosity.

“Yes, definitely. Many times I think he does not quite understand what I’m saying.”

“Hmm.” Combeferre reached down to a bag by his feet and drew out a thick book. Placing it on the table, he said, “I found this at the library and thought it may be of use. It has many different languages in it. Perhaps we can discover which Jehan has been using?”

Grantaire smiled. “Excellent!”

The three pored over the book, with Grantaire relating some words Jehan had spoken. It took them a while, but at last, they determined the language to be Italian.

“So perhaps Jehan’s mother language is Italian and not French?” Combeferre proposed, closing the book.

“Perhaps,” Enjolras agreed, “but I do not believe he is of complete Italian descent.”

“Indeed,” Combeferre said.

“Maybe one of his parents is Italian and the other French?” Grantaire wondered.

“Could be!” Combeferre responded, “That certainly explains the Italian silk cravat he seems so attached to.”

“Ah, is that specifically the material? I could not tell where such silk originated,” Grantaire said.

“Yes. It does not perfectly explain the attachment, but it confirms his Italian- and certainly wealthy -lineage.”

“Indeed it does.”

Enjolras folded his hands on the table. “Now then, were you able to figure out why he was out alone and what he ran away from?”

“And what of his full name?” Combeferre added.

Grantaire bit the inside of his lip and considered his answer. “He never told me the rest of his name. I asked him once and he said he preferred to be called Jehan, so that leads me to conclude that Jehan is a nickname, perhaps of his own choosing.”

Enjolras and Combeferre nodded.

“He did not speak much of why he ran away,” Grantaire continued. He paused, unwilling to tell the details. His heart refused to be a traitor. He knew it may be for a greater good, but giving away Jehan’s secrets to those whom the toddler had not told himself twisted his stomach uncomfortably.

Or perhaps the unsettling knots in his stomach were caused by whatever sickness had befallen him.

After a moment’s silence, Enjolras asked, “He did not give you any clues?”

“I believe there are certain problems in his home,” Grantaire spoke eventually, “He became overwhelmed and sought to escape them.”

Enjolras frowned. “Certain problems?”

Grantaire nodded.

“That’s all you know?” Combeferre said, studying him.

Grantaire decided not to answer, lowering his gaze and hoping they would not press.

“Do you know of anything concerning his family?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire lifted his gaze. “Yes, actually. I believe our suspicions were correct and he does live in a high class family. I am not sure if every member is this way, but Jehan at least is Catholic.”

Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged glances, surprised that he had been able to discover such a thing. Grantaire quickly related the story of events in the cathedral, leaving out the parts about his own experiences. He was not prepared to spill any of those feelings to another person, except perhaps for Jehan, but the perceptive little toddler had probably noticed.

Combeferre smiled at the touching tale. “How sweet!”

“That perhaps gives us a clue to his mother,” Enjolras stated.

“That was my thinking,” Grantaire replied, “I wondered if perhaps he lost his birth mother, whether by death or not, and attached himself to a mother figure in his life.”

“It certainly makes sense,” Combeferre agreed.

The three discussed small bits of Jehan’s past until Enjolras let out a sigh that signaled the end of the conversation.

“That settles this, then,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Combeferre nodded and, reaching over, he clasped Grantaire’s arm. “ _Merci, mon ami_ , you have been infinitely helpful!”

Grantaire patted his shoulder. “It has been a pleasure. Now, if you'll please excuse me, gentlemen. I have some other business to attend to. I must speak with Joly about Jehan’s health.”

Combeferre’s face fell. “Jehan’s health? Is he alright? That chill is not persisting, I hope?”

“No, it is another matter. Something I noticed, but it is likely an unnecessary fear,” Grantaire reassured, standing.

“Well then, if you’re not worried, then I’m not either,” Combeferre said with a smile.

“I am not.” He nodded to them and headed for Joly and Jehan.

A persistent pounding went on in the back of his head, as if some invisible hammer clashed with his skull repeatedly. Stabs of sharp pain accompanied the hammer. Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath to try to calm his growing nerves. He would tell the others eventually about Jehan’s father.

Truthfully, Grantaire did not wish to let go of Jehan. That was why he held back, of course. If he told anyone at all, the police would take him away to live at an orphanage until some snooty, wealthy couple took him away.

It had happened to Grantaire. He refused to let it happen to another child.

Still, something poked at him, something urgent that he could not name. He wrote it off as some addition to his sickness- he really did not feel well at all -and turned his mind to Jehan. He repeated to himself that it would all be fine.

He would later regret ignoring the nagging in the back of his head.


	5. Trial by Blood

Grantaire sat down beside Joly, smiling at Jehan as he waved. Jehan’s little voice stumbled over his words to Joly, still the strangest mixture of French and Italian. Joly seemed to understand well enough, and he listened intently to the toddler.

Once Jehan finished, Joly commented on it cheerfully, then turned to Grantaire. “Jehan is a brilliant little boy, Grantaire! He says he wishes to be a poet someday! Did you know that?”

“No, I did not!”

Joly grinned. “He has the most wonderful way with words! Jehan, do you want to recite your poem to Grantaire too?”

Jehan’s cheeks reddened and he ducked his head, but still, he quietly spoke several sentences in Italian. Grantaire did not understand a bit of it, but he recognized the flow to the words, and an undeniable rhythm. Grantaire did not need to understand what was being said to know that Jehan had spoken excellent poetry.

His chest swelled with pride. A brilliant little boy indeed! Two years old and already writing poetry! The admiration of a father to his son filled Grantaire’s heart. “That’s wonderful, Jehan!” he exclaimed, tickling the child.

Jehan squealed and giggled in delight. The adorable sound brought laughter to Grantaire and Joly as well.

Once this mirth ended, Joly took a moment to study his friend. Grantaire knew the doctor could see the illness in his face. He hoped Joly would not comment, but the young man’s hand flew to Grantaire’s forehead, searching for an abnormal temperature. “Ah, I cannot believe I didn’t notice right away! You look ill, my friend, are you alright?”

Grantaire smiled and gently grasped his wrist, lowering his hand. “I am quite alright, Joly. Don’t fret.”

Joly snorted in disbelief. “Fine, if you want to be stubborn, go ahead, but I suggest you go home and rest as soon as you can.”

“Of course,” Grantaire responded, nodding.

The medical student continued to study him. “You seem troubled. What’s on your mind?”

“Honestly, I’d just like to know first how you’re understanding Jehan.”

“Oh, a simple matter, really! You remember that I spent some time in Italy a couple years ago, to speak to the medical students there and learn some of their medical practices. I learned a good deal of Italian. It is far gone now, but I recall enough to understand our dear little Jehan.”

Grantaire nodded. He did indeed remember those months when Joly had been gone.

“That was the first thing, you said,” Joly continued, “What are the others?”

“Really only one thing,” Grantaire replied after some thought, “Jehan became upset last night and I noticed he seemed to have trouble breathing for a time, and he was pressing his hand to his chest as though it hurt him.”

Joly’s brow furrowed into a tight line of concern. “Indeed… Did you notice anything else about that?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Joly was quiet for several minutes, clearly thinking deeply. Then he sighed and spoke, “Could be some heart trouble.”

Grantaire paled. “Heart trouble?! Are you certain?!”

Joly placed his hand comfortingly on the cynic’s arm. “Hush, my friend. It is likely nothing to be severely concerned about. The moment passed and he is well now. It could be perhaps that his heart is weak, a possible effect from a previous illness. All we must do is help him to be calm, like he is now.”

“Oh...yes, I see. Alright,” Grantaire said, his shoulders relaxing.

The two spent a few more minutes discussing Jehan’s health, then Joly tried to assess Grantaire’s own illness. Grantaire pushed aside all his attempts, insisting he was absolutely fine. They both knew that to be a lie. He was lightheaded and sick to his stomach. Tremors ran through his body with each breath. A low whine had begun in his ears. He refused to let his wretchedness interfere with his duties to Jehan, however.

They continued to speak about other topics, their voices losing their serious tones. Jehan played with Joly’s cravat, running his tiny fingers over it, fascinated by the paisley pattern.

After a time, Enjolras rose from his chair and called everyone to attention. The regality of this man stood out more prominently; clad in black, with the only color coming from his red vest, his piercing eyes, and the golden hair framing his grave face. All eyes turned to him, the voices fading away. Even Jehan turned to gaze at the leader, shifting in Joly’s lap so he could see.

“Gentleman,” Enjolras began, “you all know of the toddler we have recently taken into our protection.”

Courfeyrac interrupted with a loud gasp. “Oh, Enjolras! You’re going to say we can keep him, aren’t you?! Say that! _Please_ , Enjolras!”

Enjolras lowered his gaze so he would not have to face the eager expressions of his friends. “I am afraid not.”

Those gathered tried their best to be happy. Enjolras’ announcement must mean that Jehan’s family had been found. A joyous thing, truly, but their hearts were sorrowful with the knowledge that their time spent with the lovable toddler had finished already.

“You are all aware, also, that Combeferre’s father is a police inspector,” Enjolras continued, “He brought to my attention this morning that there was a missing person report filed yesterday at about noon. The report was from a Monsieur Prouvaire seeking his two year old son, Jean-Pierre Marie, who had disappeared from his home some time in the early morning.”

Jehan stiffened and grasped Joly’s sleeve, staring wide eyed at Enjolras. A hint of fear dilated the silvery depths of his eyes. This did not go unnoticed by Enjolras, yet the leader pressed on.

“I spoke with Inspector Combeferre further. The description of this missing child fits Jehan. Some conversation with Grantaire has confirmed this. Jehan is the missing toddler, Jean-Pierre Marie Prouvaire, and we have an obligation to return him home.”

The boys could not disguise their sorrow now. Hearing the words spoken somehow made it official, more concrete, especially coming from their leader. Jehan remained tense, his grip tightening on Joly’s sleeve until his tiny knuckles went as white as his thin face. Grantaire’s stomach performed several fantastic flips. He clenched his hands into fists.

He should have told Enjolras.

“When will we have to let him go?” Feuilly asked with a faint sniffle.

“I am meeting with Inspector Combeferre and Monsieur Prouvaire in about an hour,” Enjolras replied, his own voice thick with sorrow, “Jehan’s father is rather distraught at the loss of his son. Apparently he is his only child and the only remaining family member he has close. Jehan’s mother passed away a few months ago now and it has been hard on the two of them.

“According to Monsieur Prouvaire, Jehan’s mother was of Italian descent. She came here years ago to study, and that’s when she met Monsieur Prouvaire. Because of her heritage, the Prouvaire’s spoke Italian at home, so Jehan could know the language as well. Jehan was commonly at home due to a weak heart, therefore he knows Italian much better than French.”

There was no room for argument. Jehan’s family had clearly been found.

“Oh, poor little flower!” Joly exclaimed. He hugged Jehan tightly and stroked his hair, closing his eyes as a few tears managed to slip out and down his cheek.

Jehan clung to him as Courfeyrac and several other members of the Amis rushed over and joined the hug. Combeferre took off his glasses and wiped his sleeve across his eye.

Grantaire stared intensely at his hands in his lap. He imagined the events about to occur. He could already see Jehan’s disappointed and fearful expression, those wide pools of gray that would gaze at him in a silent plea for help, those tiny hands that would wave to him as he stepped inside a fancy carriage. He would disappear, go back to his life, and Grantaire would never see the innocent, sweet child again.

Grantaire scowled. He could not let that man, this Monsieur Prouvaire, take him back. Grantaire knew the truth. He could save Jehan from this life. Nothing could prevent him from doing so.

With a fiery passion and determination he had never possessed, he abruptly slammed his hands down on the table and stood, knocking his chair aside. The others jumped and gasped. All eyes turned to him. Enjolras stiffened with anger. Grantaire, his jaw tight, forced himself to look at the marble man.

“What is your problem?” Enjolras asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I have many problems,” Grantaire answered, “but there are, in particular, matters at hand that need addressing.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well then, why don’t you return to your seat and we can discuss this.”

“NO! No, I refuse to debate with you!” Grantaire yelled, stepping away from the table to better face Enjolras.

“You, refuse a debate? You must be ill!” A flicker of doubt crossed his eyes as he took in Grantaire’s pale and sweat covered face, but it disappeared in a flash, undetected by all.

“Perhaps I have merely gained some sense!” Grantaire countered.

Enjolras snorted. “I don’t believe you are capable of any sense.”

Grantaire strode forward a step. Enjolras responded with two steps of his own. The fabric of Grantaire’s shirt, damp with sweat, clung to the well toned muscles of his arms. The veins and tendons in his neck tightened and stood out more prominently as he readied himself for a fight. He would not refuse to put his years of boxing into practice, if he had to. Enjolras had no such muscle or training; however, the tempest in his eyes alone made up for the loss.

“Listen, Enjolras-”

“Shut up, wine cask!”

“NO. This is important and you must listen!”

Enjolras’ nostrils flared. He and Grantaire both took one step closer to each other. “What is _so_ important that you must be this aggressive over it?”

Grantaire glared at the regal leader before him. “I know you believe that you’ve made the right choice in sending Jehan home with his father, but-”

“I HAVE made the right choice!”

“You have not! I _know_ you have not! Jehan’s father-”

“-misses him dearly and is eager for his return! I know this!”

“No! Enjolras, he-”

“Shut up and return to your seat!”

“NO! I am trying to tell you-”

“I don’t care! I have deliberated this all day and I am confident in my choice!” Enjolras’ lip curled in disdain. “I don’t need a drunken idiot to vomit his worthless opinions on me.”

The words stung Grantaire. They flew at him like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. How easily a simple sentence can damage a man. How deeply words can cut, carving a wound more deadly than a bullet or knife.

Yet as much as it hurt, it also did little to deter him. Grantaire’s mind, fogged with anger and pain, could only focus wholly on one thing before him. He rarely saw Enjolras up close. Often, the distance of the room stretched between them. All Grantaire ever beheld was a tall, regal, angelic man. The great Apollo, carved in marble, with sunbeams radiating from him. Completely flawless. Cloaked in red and gold, with eyes like the sea before a storm.

Now he looked upon Enjolras and saw someone different. He studied the face he so often beheld at that great distance, now only inches away from him. Enjolras’ fair skin did not reflect any ethereal light, but bore an almost sickly white tone. His skin had flaws as well. A thin pink scar ran along the top of his left eyebrow. Some pockmarks and a few faint freckles dotted across his nose and slightly sunken cheeks. The storm in his eyes raged over deep, dark shadows. The heavy bags could have been mistaken for bruises if one did not look close enough.

Grantaire perceived that he looked not at a god, or an angel, or even a man. He saw a boy, struggling with the weight of the world. As he looked down at his Apollo, he wondered what it must be like to be him. He wondered what massive weight rested on his chest.

He wondered how he had never noticed any of this before.

With a dismissive wave of his hand and an unintelligible mutter, Enjolras turned to go back to his own seat. This jolted Grantaire back to the present situation. He let out a growl of frustration. He grabbed the leader’s arm, roughly forcing him to face him again. Enjolras gasped a little in surprise, his eyes flashing with a darker anger and a hint of shock.

“Grantaire, release me this instant!” he demanded.

“No! Not until you listen! I need to-”

“I need _you_ to shut up!”

“Enjolras, I beg you-”

“SHUT UP!”

“NO!”

Enjolras attempted to free himself, jerking his arm to try to get it out of Grantaire’s grip. Grantaire tightened his hold. His heart beat rapidly as adrenaline rushed into his veins.

Grantaire saw the blow coming before Enjolras even realized he had raised his fist.

He ducked as Enjolras’ fist swung at his head, clumsy but still with all the power of his rage behind it. Grantaire gave no thought to his response. He had straightened out and prepared for counter attacks before Enjolras had righted himself from his punch.

Grantaire grasped Enjolras’ shoulders and rammed him into the wall. Enjolras choked as the air rushed out of his lungs, yet he still struggled to escape. He swung another punch at Grantaire’s jaw. The stronger man pulled him away from the wall, then wrestled him to the floor. He quickly pressed his knee down on Enjolras’ arm. The leader gasped in pain. Grantaire expertly punched his face several times in succession.

The world faded out to the sound of the ringing in Grantaire’s ears. He became oblivious to everything except his own desperation and reckless fury, ignorant even of Enjolras’ silent pleas for him to stop. He did not hear his friends shouting. He did not see them jumping out of their chairs, nor did he see the shocked expressions on their faces.

Combeferre’s voice finally broke through. “That’s enough! Grantaire, get off him!”

As if he had been burned, he leapt back, releasing Enjolras. Combeferre knelt beside Enjolras and helped him sit up, offering him a handkerchief. The leader brushed his help away but took the handkerchief, using it to wipe the blood streaming from his nose and trickling from his lip away.

Joly passed Jehan to Feuilly then hurried over, gripping his cane. He sat beside the leader and gently took his face in his hands, studying his injuries and asking him questions. Enjolras quietly insisted he was fine, shooting a glare at Grantaire.

Combeferre kept his hands on Enjolras’ back and arm, steadying him. His normally calm expression turned to Grantaire. He flinched at the anger and disappointment he found there instead.

He lowered his eyes to the floor, all the adrenaline and fury draining from him, leaving him slumped down. “My sincerest apologies. I did not mean to cause trouble,” he muttered. He cringed as Enjolras’ gaze fell on him.

“Get out,” the leader demanded coldly.

The day Grantaire had long feared had finally come. Enjolras rejected him.

He nodded and rose to his feet, casting a glance at the other boys. They stared at him, horrified that he could hurt Enjolras like that. None of them had ever seen him act violently. Grantaire’s nature was not to lash out with his fists. His words acted as his weapons, not his hands.

He met Jehan’s gaze. The toddler looked utterly betrayed. His eyes flooded with tears. Trembling, he whimpered and buried his face in Feuilly’s chest as Grantaire studied him.

Grantaire swallowed a lump rising in his throat. Of course Jehan had every right to be scared of him, and everyone had the right to be angry. He had promised to protect Jehan, had spent the past twenty-four hours building up trust. He had been a close companion to these boys for years.

His friends were his life, and Jehan had quickly found his place in it.

In mere seconds, Grantaire had destroyed his entire life.

With tears burning in his eyes, his heart aching, and his head spinning, he slowly walked toward the door. His limbs were heavy with the weight of his deeds as he went.

He paused on the threshold, staring at the stairs before him. This would be the last time he would ever tread on them.

He sighed. There was one thing he could not leave his life without doing.

Grantaire looked back over his shoulder at the others. His voice sounded broken as he told them, “I was only trying to tell you that Jehan had a terrible nightmare last night, and as I was comforting him, he related to me that his father, this esteemed Monsieur Prouvaire that you are about to deliver him to, abuses him. Jehan is terrified of him. He ran away from his father.”

An audible gasp rang out among the boys. Enjolras lifted his head sharply and stared at him.

Grantaire trembled as he continued. “I only thought you should know. I thought perhaps we could resolve this, make it so Jehan would not have to return to his nightmares, nor to an orphanage. I apologize for my loss of control over my emotions. Good evening.”

And with that, he began his descent.

He heard Enjolras’ voice along with the creak of the stairs. “We will think of something. It’s going to be fine.” A bitter smile tugged at the corners of Grantaire’s mouth; yes, surely Enjolras would fix everything. Enjolras, the grand marble leader; fearless and unbending, quick witted and powerful. He was Apollo, he was fire, he was a storm.

If anyone could rescue Jehan from the fate that loomed over him, it was Enjolras.

Grantaire stepped out of the Musain for the last time. He shivered in the cool night air, pulling his coat tighter around his shaking frame. He wandered aimlessly into the growing darkness, head bent. He walked several blocks in silence, his steps becoming slower.

Finally, he relented to his misery and collapsed in an alley. He shivered more violently now that he was damp from the snow. The tears that trailed down his cheeks began to freeze. He stuck his hands under his arms and curled up in a desperate attempt to retain body heat, but he knew it would only work for a little while. He doubted that he even cared.

Dimly, he realized the reason for his sickness. He had been so busy tending to Jehan that he had not had any alcohol since he had first seen the child. Grantaire’s body had so long relied on alcohol to function properly that, having been cut off from it, even for such a short time, it was shutting down.

Grantaire had saved Jehan, and in return, the toddler had saved him.

He laughed sardonically and mumbled to himself, “Ah, what irony! The weak are mighty, and the mighty are weak!” He groaned as the pain in his head pounded with more ferocity. “And see how hard these mighty figures fall, once their weakness has been revealed.”

He lost all sense of time. His breathing became labored. Everything in him grew sluggish. He allowed his heavy eyelids to slip closed, and with a sigh, he accepted his fate. “Well, at least it was a good life. I was quite foolish to destroy it like that.”

Grantaire whispered a farewell to Jehan, then, as he passed into oblivion, “Please forgive me, Mary, my mother.”


End file.
